


The Pretty Words We Tell Ourselves to Mitigate the Guilt

by psylocke



Category: Marvel 616, New Mutants, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psylocke/pseuds/psylocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Doug Ramsey was too afraid to visit his parents, and one time he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pretty Words We Tell Ourselves to Mitigate the Guilt

_**I.** _

Would they be able to understand? Could they comprehend the enormity of the situation, or would they resort to chicanery, to fallacy, to outright divine intervention for the reason their long-presumed-dead son was knocking at their door? His parents had always been faithful, but only in the most practical sense: he had no way of determining whether they would call him a miracle of a God they believed-in-but-didn't-believe-in or an aberration, some twisted hellspawn overtaking the body of their darling, golden, boy.

It would be so easy to run, to hide, to not face his fears. Doug Ramsey was good at running, good at being the proverbial scaredy-cat (though, he'd never met a genuinely scaredy-cat, and most of the cats he knew were surprisingly vicious and aggressive). Something about running away from this, his past and present and future, though, felt incredibly craven. 

His friends would never forgive him for turning tail, he knew that with full certainty. But would his parents forgive his being a disgrace against nature?

Doug turned away and began rehearsing the lie he would tell Dani when she asked how it went.

_**IX.** _

The iron gates were ominous, an odd thing to be feeling when reflecting upon your childhood home. What had, for so long, been a haven, a safe place, now felt like the stuff of nightmares. It was still as immaculately kept as when he was a boy, the old Victorian style home in the gratingly WASPish neighbourhood. Safety in conformity. Safety in belonging. But he didn't belong here anymore.

He had a brief moment of panic when he couldn't decide where, exactly, he meant by 'here' in this instance -- this house, this neighbourhood, this world? 

Doug reached out, let his fingers scrape on the bars that had kept him safe. Out of trouble. Each time he came, he got a step closer to the house. Touching the gate was a new step in and of itself, an advancement in his personal therapy, a careful tread in the right direction. It felt like electricity on his fingertips, surged with the memories of his past. The days spent with Kitty in the upstairs bedroom, eating meatloaf around the table while his parents talked about their days and never thought to ask about his.

The soured memory gave him pause. Long enough to realize how ill-prepared he was for this. The slightest movement in the corner of his eye, which to him resembled the rustle of a curtain, had him scampering down the street before anybody caught sight of him. 

_**XIV.** _

They were starting to ask question — his friends. Doug didn’t know how, or why, or when, but at some point along the line, they’d caught him in a lie, or at least in a half-truth, and now the casual dismissal of his weekly visits to his parents’ place had turned into more prying questions. Deeper questions. Ones he hadn’t had the chance to rehearse, which left him scrambling for explanation. His powers made it so he could speak with a degree of certainty, even when nervous, but that couldn’t mask his general lack of preparedness.

If you dug deep enough, the holes were glaringly obvious. One week he’d mention they were jetting off to Cabo, an excuse to not have to go stand in the cold of Salem Center for two hours, but then would return from Ibiza after a fortnight of having totally forgot the story he’d told. Conflicting evidence was abound: his father was still practicing law some months, but others he was retired. That could be covered up by ‘semi-retired’, but it was definitely fishy.

It had gotten to the point that Doug had no choice but to walk up to the door. Every ounce of panic and fear weighing him down be damned, he was going to knock on that door. He was going to—

Oh, god. Footsteps. He could hear footsteps inside, responding to the three brisk taps he’d laid on the wood. Somebody was going to answer. Somebody was going to see him. Doug dove into the bushes, scratching up his favourite shirt and catching him in the cheek, drawing a bit of blood. He went perfectly still, his face buried in his lap as he tried making himself as small as possible. Behind him, the door opened and lingered ajar until whoever had answered gave up.

“Damn kids,” rang a voice. One he didn’t recognize, but it sounded like his mother’s. A small smile formed on his face — had it really been so long, had his absence really been so whole, that he’d forgotten the sound of his own mom’s voice? His smile was then coupled with a choked sob, rustling the bush, but the door had already been closed.

_**XXVII.** _

A person of his build and description had been reported to the Salem Center police department. The posters left a lot to be desired, not capturing near enough of his rugged qualities. ‘Berto would be jealous — the whole thing screamed Magnum. He was half-tempted to rip one of the ‘dangerous persons’ posters to show off later. Maybe after he’d had a bit of time to detox, an opportunity to regroup.

By now, Doug could only assume they knew he hadn’t stopped to visit his parents and were simply too embarrassed for him to make mention of it. He was grateful for that, at the very least, because it wasn’t a conversation he was interested in having. This wasn’t his idea. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to make whole that hole in his heart, didn’t want to disturb the peace. Definitely didn’t want to be labeled a possible home-invader.

He knew right away he was lying. He could speak over 500 languages, terrestrial and extra-so, understood the nuances of body language to the point that the slightest fidget or hesitation in voice could betray a lie. He was a human polygraph, and right then, the censors were blasting in his ears. He needed this catharsis. This was something he needed to do. But in 27 visits in as many weeks, the one time he’d succeeded in knocking on the door, he’d chickened out and hid in the shrubbery.

His fingers laced through the iron gates of the yard, still unlocked despite the posters advising them against it. Doug attempted to push it open, the hinges squeaking as he did. He stopped in mid-movement, mouth hanging open. The early morning fog of Salem led to a deserted street, and the noise echoed for what felt like miles. All eyes would be on him. As a precaution, he pulled up the hood of his inconspicuous grey sweater, not bothering to place his hands on the rungs again.

“What’s the point?” he argued aloud, entirely with himself. Having all those voices in your head made a stable conversation difficult without one party speaking the lines. Otherwise he’d start debating in Klingon, Esperanto, Italian, and a very nervous English trying to figure out why everybody was ganging up on him. Why they felt like his life was one they could steamroll.

So what if he’d died?

Clearly it hadn’t been important enough an issue to even tell them, or else somebody would have mentioned them coming to visit his grave. But he hadn’t even gotten that: no visitors, no mourning, no ‘happy-to-see-you’s’. Kitty hadn’t acknowledged him. Sam and Berto and Dani and Shan and Amara and Illyana had barely acknowledged him. Betsy looked at him with confusion, one he’d used to regard her with. He was ungodly. A demon. Rotten flesh made whole again by black magic.

Maybe it was better that his parents had never been told of his death — or, if they had, as Xavier had not been forthcoming in those details, then maybe it was for the best that they’d moved on and given up on their freak of a son. That’s what he was, after all. What he’d always been. A mutant, a disgrace, a socially awkward loser who couldn’t even buy friends. The one he had was just as odd as he was, and now she wouldn’t give him the time of day.

If the New Mutants had forgotten about him, his newfound family, then he was damn sure his old one had forgotten him, too.

A voice from behind him snapped him out of his misery. “—Hey, kid.” Another voice he didn’t recognize, but immediately registered as potentially hostile. “Neighbourhood watch. No loitering. There’s some—”

Doug turned around, which was clearly a mistake as even with his face covered, he still looked enough like himself to be noticed. A whistle rang, and he booked it. Grabbed one of the ‘suspicious characters’ posters, too, from a lamp post. Maybe he’d hold on to it until Roberto could look at it without asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

‘Berto would like it.

_**XXXIX.** _

It was ‘Locke, of all people, who finally called his bluff. Not in front of the others, fortunately, but when they were alone and he thought he didn’t have to worry about being cornered. It wasn’t a malicious, nor overtly emotional conversation — neither of them possessed the skills required to have a deep, empathetic conversation. But the brass tax had been drawn. It was time to put up or shut up.

“Query — does selfsoulfriend Doug have appropriate topic of conversation selected for upcoming visit?” Warlock had insisted on tagging along. If for no other reason than to make sure that he actually knocked this time, and that he didn’t run off before the door could be opened in response. He wore that oversized brown hoodie, hood pulled up far enough to conceal his technarch features. With Doug in a nearly matching outfit, they looked like a couple of kids who were up to no good. Definitely not blending in to the well-to-do neightbourhood.

“No, ‘Locke, I—”

“Self has taken liberty to prepare suggestions!” Even under the hood, Doug could tell he was beaming. “Selfsoulfriend and self could discuss recent changes in selfteam’s roster. Selffriendroberto and Selffriendsam have joined the Avengers!” He couldn’t get enough of that story. Like it was the honour to end all honours. “And chieffrienddanielle with the Fearless Defenders!”

“No, ‘Locke—” he repeated. “I don’t want to talk about hero stuff. I haven’t seen them in…”

Before he could do the math on his own, Warlock had it done. “Three years, seven months, eleven days, fourteen hours, forty-nine minutes, twelve seconds.” He beamed. “Thirteen seconds.”

Groaning, Doug slipped through the gates — still unlocked — while ‘Locke remained behind, giving him a thumbs up. Swallowing pride, fear, courage, dread, guilt, and a plethora of other emotions he couldn’t find the words for, he approached the door that just a few years ago, he’d passed through freely. The window above, the one he would use to sneak out and meet up with Kitty at the Internet Cafe. This was the yard he’d held his first hand in, the basement he’d watched his first R-rated movie in. Where he’d learned to ride a bike.

By the time he reached the door, he had tears in his eyes, and stubbornly he wiped them away with the back of his sleeve. One final look back over his shoulder, Warlock’s encouraging grin visible even from a distance, and he forced himself to knock. Frozen in place, steeled to the ground, Doug kept his teeth clenched as he waited for somebody to come to his summons.

It took precisely 14.12 seconds. He heard the footsteps six seconds before the handle shook, unlocking it, and finally swung open.

He was too far gone into his own mind to look up from his shoes, the words stumbling out without a filter, totally against his will. “I’msosososorry. I should have called. Somebody should have told you. I didn’t mean to—I never wanted to lie—I didn’t have the right words, I still don’t have the right words, I just—I—I need you to know I love you and I’m sorry and—”

“Slow down, son.”

He didn’t recognize the voice. Why didn’t he recognize the voice?

Panicked, Doug finally looked up. A kindly man stood in place of what should have been his imposing father. Unless he’d lost weight, some hair, some presence — no. It still couldn’t have been his father. His father had a hooked nose, a dimple on his chin. He also never sounded so pleasant. “While I appreciate the apology, I’m not sure it’s warranted. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Hank.”

“I—” he breathed. Forgot how to breathe, then remembered, then did it. “I’m looking for Philip and Sheila Ramsey. They—this is their house.”

Hank nodded slowly. “Not anymore, no,” he said. “We bought it from them a few years back. Said they couldn’t be around here anymore—too many… bad memories.”

Against his better judgement, Doug wiped away another painful tear from the corner of his eye. “Did—did they leave a forwarding address? Somewhere I could reach them?”

A sad smile formed on the stranger’s face. “I’m afraid not.”

The conversation lasted another minute and a half, but he was too distracted to really involve himself in it. By the time he was turning away, he’d been built up and broken a half dozen times. Hank promised to look for some trace of them, while Doug insisted he could probably, maybe, definitely, doubtfuly, find them online.

Warlock waited dutifully for him at the end of the drive, and those long arms were embracing him before he even managed to reach the gate. Doug’s whole body collapsed into the body, which lifted him up and started carrying him back towards the town. He didn’t struggle. Didn’t resist. Let himself go limp and get carted off. As usual. The weak link. Couldn’t take care of himself.

Most of the time, didn’t want to.

It was several minutes before Warlock spoke. There was a hesitation in his speech that made Doug think he felt sad, but was trying to hide it. “Query,” he queried, voice barely above a whisper. “Does selfsoulfriend desire ice cream? Self would enjoy three pints of cherries selffriendjubilee.”

“Nah,” was his only response.

“Query — would selfsoulfriend like self to help locate soulparents Sheila and Philip Ramsey?”

Doug buried his face in ‘Locke’s shoulder, and gave the most imperceptible of nods.

Warlock beamed. “Then self will begin scan right away.” He paused. “After ice cream.”

“Yeah,” Doug said, forcing himself to smile. “After ice cream.”


End file.
